


rest your bones with me

by gealbhan



Series: joy surrounds, comfort abounds [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Background Relationships, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Polyamorous Black Eagles, Polyamory, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon, a long-winded justification of hubert's love language being acts of service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-24 00:09:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21328975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealbhan/pseuds/gealbhan
Summary: Hubert becomes the inadvertent pillow of the former Black Eagles. He can’t say that he truly minds.
Relationships: Bernadetta von Varley/Hubert von Vestra, Caspar von Bergliez/Hubert von Vestra, Dorothea Arnault/Hubert von Vestra, Edelgard von Hresvelg & Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra, Linhardt von Hevring/Hubert von Vestra, Petra Macneary & Hubert von Vestra
Series: joy surrounds, comfort abounds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583263
Comments: 12
Kudos: 244





	rest your bones with me

**Author's Note:**

> i WILL sell you on polyam black eagles. re relationships: everyone is dating hubert except edelgard and petra, whose relationships with him are platonic. other bleagles relationships are heavily implied, hence the bg relationships tag, but ultimately left up to interpretation! everyone also has their unpaired ending here, though elements of various paired endings are referenced.
> 
> warning for canon-typical implications of child abuse (regarding respectively bernadetta and edelgard) in sections ii & vii and off-screen violence in section iv, though all fairly vague. there's also some minor spoilers for the cf route, but nothing too big!
> 
> title from maroon 5's "sunday morning." enjoy!

**i.**

Linhardt has fallen asleep on Hubert.

In and of itself, this is not an unusual situation. Linhardt, of course, is prone to sleep even in the worst of circumstances, and someone who falls asleep apropos of nothing tends to lean toward whatever or whoever is nearest. But Hubert is rarely in such close proximity to him. And even if this has happened before, he doesn’t recall it being this… warm.

It would surprise very little people to find that Hubert tends to run on the cold side. In fact, so rarely does he feel warm that it is what gets his attention. Not the dead weight against his arm, not the brush of soft hair against his neck. No, it’s the warmth radiating off of Linhardt’s person, an almost foreign sensation.

As heat spreads under his collar, Hubert glances over. “Ah,” he says, little more than a breath, because Linhardt is leaning into him, quiet breathing and smoothed-out face leaving no questions about his consciousness (or rather, lack thereof).

Any other time, Hubert would be content to go on with his work—he’d been drafting a proposition at Edelgard’s request. The warmth is surprising, after all, but not a significant problem.

But now, it seems Linhardt has fallen asleep on his dominant arm. Continuing to write like this would be difficult if not outright impossible. Attempting to move would undoubtedly jostle Linhardt. Knowing him, it wouldn’t wake him, but it would jolt him out of the position that Hubert assumes is rather comfortable; perhaps it would let him fall out of his chair altogether.

Not for the first time, Hubert wishes he had followed in Edelgard’s—and then, never one to be outdone, Ferdinand’s—example and trained himself to be ambidextrous as a child. It would make his life as a whole so much more efficient.

Alas, Hubert suspects he’s too old a dog to learn new tricks at this point. So he sets down his pen with a small sigh and turns back to Linhardt.

His eyes pass over Linhardt; there’s nothing too special about the sight. Since Linhardt is often napping or thinking about napping, his expression isn’t much different from those he wears while awake. His eyebrows are slack, and his eyelids flutter, but the line of his mouth is as solid as ever, if a tad straighter as opposed to the frown (whether thoughtful or displeased) he so often has on. Though his head is tilted, very few hairs are out of place.

However unremarkable, it makes Hubert smile. He reaches up with the hand not hindered by Linhardt’s hand and brushes back those hairs that have been shaken loose, tucking them behind Linhardt’s ear with ease.

And then, just as quick, he scowls and retracts his hand. While he’s come to terms with Linhardt’s lack of effort, that’s hardly the same as allowing him free reign to disrupt others’ work. If he’s to be the ant who works while everyone else is tired, then the other ants have to first be able to accomplish their own work. Though Hubert doubts this is deliberate on Linhardt’s part, it is working directly against him.

He supposes he should be glad Linhardt hadn’t fallen asleep on his own work—though _ work _ is a questionable name, as it’s not official business in any capacity. It had been related to Linhardt’s Crest research, though, and the ink is still wet. Hubert glances over; while a clear work-in-progress, it’s a good draft, and he’ll have to tell Linhardt so once he wakes. The Goddess only knows what disaster could have ensued if it’d gotten smudged.

Not that this isn’t a disaster—if a small one—in its own right. Spikes of numbness are already traveling through Hubert’s arm. That incessant warmth is also starting to spread throughout his body, though not an unpleasant feeling. Plus, his current main struggle of not being able to continue doing important work for Her Majesty. (Edelgard would, of course, understand, but it’s the principle of the thing.)

And then there’s the fact that the door is still unlocked. This room isn’t open to the general public, but it is open to anyone perusing the grounds of the Garreg Mach Monastery. So any number of people could see one of the leading authorities on Crest research asleep on the shoulder of the Minister of the Imperial Household, who’s also neglecting his duties.

Not that Hubert particularly cares for the opinion of most people around him. And he knows for a fact Linhardt doesn’t.

As his thoughts drift again to Linhardt (hard not to, in this state), Hubert’s eyes flicker to him too. Though he’s never been one to get caught up in other people’s emotions, Hubert finds himself growing tired just looking at him. He fights back a yawn and shakes himself. Sure, he hasn’t been getting much sleep as of late—but that doesn’t mean he should find it now of all times. It’s a relatively public room, and the middle of the afternoon besides.

Even so, the devil’s advocate at the back of his mind mutters: If he’s already not getting work done, what would be the harm?

Hubert’s scowl tightens, but the thought pursues him. Ferdinand tells him he should rest more often. Well, everyone does, more or less; it’s just that Ferdinand is the most heavy-handed about it, as he is with most things. Only Caspar rivals him in lack of subtlety. The two of them have been the most impertinent in getting Hubert to rest—on occasion, they physically force him to sleep by carrying him to bed (which he will never admit to enjoying—it seems to take the weight off his shoulders by placing it, in the literal sense, into another’s arms).

Linhardt himself has, indeed, told Hubert to rest, though in a less labor-intensive manner. And then there are Edelgard’s less-than-subtle hints that he should take a break every now and then.

Perhaps they have a point, Hubert concedes. He tilts his head the slightest amount to rest against Linhardt’s. Hubert fights the urge to close his eyes for exactly thirty-eight seconds before sighing through his nose and accepting it, letting his eyelids fall shut with a certain emphasis. Evening out his breath to match Linhardt’s, Hubert joins him in sleep.

It’s the best rest he’s gotten in ages.

(Later, there’s a distinct imprint in the shape of Linhardt’s head on the sleeve of Hubert’s shirt. Linhardt laughs but otherwise doesn’t bring it up. Hubert doesn’t realize it’s there until midway through dinner with Byleth, who points it out with the usual show of stoicism while shaking with suppressed laughter.)

**ii.**

“What a rare surprise, to see you outside like this.”

Bernadetta yelps and slams her sketchbook shut. Squeaking out a half-sobbed apology, she’s already gotten to her feet and started to run off when she actually sees who it is. “Oh! Hubert! Hi!” she says, relaxing, though her sketchbook is still held tight to her chest. “S-Sorry, you’re just—really quiet.”

“I had the impression I was less frightening to you now,” says Hubert. “It seems not.”

“It’s not that you’re scary,” says Bernadetta in defense, too quick. Hubert raises an eyebrow, and she flushes. “Well, I mean, you _are_, but—! Oh, that sounded bad, didn’t it? I’m so sorry! Always putting your foot in your mouth, Bernie…” She dissolves into mumbles as she slides back down.

Hubert, still somewhat amused, glances around. He can see why this place would appeal to Bernadetta. Though the summer heat is near stifling elsewhere, here a slight breeze flows through the air, stirring Bernadetta’s hair and the dense leaves of the tree under which she sits. The tree itself towers above even Hubert and provides ample shade to further combat the humidity. A cursory glance around reveals no one but them in the vicinity. It’s as closed a space as one can get out here, and quiet and cool besides.

Hubert can’t say it doesn’t appeal to him as well. He clears his throat. Bernadetta, who’d returned to sketching, jumps a little, and he placates her with an apologetic bow. With a sweeping gesture to the grass, Hubert asks, “Do you mind?”

“Do I mind wh—oh!” Bernadetta scoots aside, leaving room for him beside her. “N-No, not at all. Or—yes? I’ve never known what you’re supposed to say to that. Because if you say ‘yes,’ you’re technically saying you do mind, right?”

“Language tends to be unnecessarily confusing,” agrees Hubert, taking a seat. He’s unused to sitting in the grass like this, so he has to readjust a couple of times before he’s able to relax. “However, I understood what you meant. So you needn’t worry about semantics for now.”

“Oh! Good.”

With a mollified smile, Bernadetta begins drawing again. She keeps sneaking glances at Hubert out of the corners of her eyes, and after a while, it grows unsettling. For as often as he prides himself on covertly watching others, Hubert isn’t used to the feeling of knowing he himself is being watched.

“Bernadetta—” she jumps, but he expects this and goes on without (much) pause and with a less confrontational voice “—what seems to be the problem?”

“There’s no problem!” She seems to realize how shrill her voice is and claps a hand over her mouth. Hubert sighs, and Bernadetta stammers out, “Well, I was kinda—um—I mean, I wasn’t trying to be creepy, or—I was just—oh, just look!” She shoves out her sketchbook, one side folded back to reveal a single page with just one sketch.

Hubert looks down, bemused. “Ah,” he says. “It’s me.”

And, well, it is. It’s an impeccable depiction, in fact—though she hasn’t been drawing for long, she’s managed to accurately capture most of his facial features as well as his wind-tousled hair. He assumes it’s accurate, at least. He doesn’t spend much time looking at mirrors (willful ignorance, one could perhaps call it).

“I—I was trying to be sneaky about it,” says Bernadetta, “but, um, of course you noticed! You’re not dumb. Sorry, I know that was weird—I should have asked, or let you know, at least—”

“Bernadetta—”

“—and I’m really sorry, b-but you just looked nice, and I realized I haven’t really drawn anything of you lately and it felt unfair, so—”

“_Bernie.”_

With a ferocity that would be comical any other time, Bernadetta’s jaw clamps shut. Owlish and glassy eyes blink up at Hubert, who winces.

“I apologize for raising my voice,” he says, rubbing his temples. “But I assure you, it’s fine. Quite flattering, actually.” She hasn’t lowered the sketchbook, so Hubert glances back to it. “Your attention to detail is, as always, incredible. And you haven’t made me look _too_ intimidating.” Just intimidating enough, in his opinion.

“Oh! Thank you!” Some of the light has returned to Bernadetta’s eyes. “So you don’t hate it?” _Or me_ is left unspoken—though Bernadetta’s confidence has improved over the years, she’s still timid old Bernie in many ways.

“Far from it,” assures Hubert. The word _love_ doesn’t come easily to him—he’s of the opinion that affection doesn’t need to be spoken of aloud to be understood, but of course everyone prefers it to be shown in different ways. “If you’re comfortable with it, I wouldn’t mind seeing the other pieces you’ve been working on. After all, I rarely get the chance to see your work.”

He can practically see Bernadetta go through fight-or-flight mode. With an audible swallow, she nods. “Okay. Um, so I haven’t been drawing much today—I think I just came out here about an hour before you found me—but here’s some stuff from earlier.”

She flips through the pages, slow enough that Hubert can process the images but quick enough that he doesn’t get to take it fully in, let alone comment aside from a “Hm” or “Very nice.” Littering the sheets are sketches of, from what Hubert can gather, anything and everything. One page is filled with plants (carnivorous, he has to assume). Quite a few feature people—their friends and partners, indistinct figures, sometimes simple close-ups of hands or eyes.

One running theme makes Hubert smile. “You’ve drawn a lot of Dorothea, haven’t you?”

Bernadetta flushes a deep crimson. “Sh-She’s really pretty, okay?”

“I don’t disagree. Simply acknowledging it.” He tilts his head to further study Bernadetta’s sketches. She hasn’t flipped the page yet, so he assumes he’s welcome to. “You’ve captured her likeness remarkably well. Is this one of her in her latest opera?”

“Yeah! She let me do a study of her in her costume.”

Hubert imagines Dorothea adored being a model—and the opportunities it gave to tease Bernadetta. “That would explain the detail. Truly outstanding.” He notes a few drawings near the edge of the page that feature clothing on indistinct figures. “Are you considering becoming a fashion designer?”

“No way.” Bernadetta chews on the edge of her pencil, a nervous habit she doesn’t seem to realize she has. “But, um, Dorothea did ask if I wanted to help some of her costume designers out with sewing stuff sometime, so—I don’t know. I—I guess I’ve been thinking about doing that, and maybe helping with the actual designs too.”

“Well, you are a very capable embroiderer,” says Hubert, tapping the flower still pinned to his lapel. “I’m certain you would do marvelously.”

Bernadetta’s eyes go wide and vacant, so much so that for a moment he fears she’ll faint. Much to his relief, she doesn’t. She clutches the sketchbook to her face to hide the red continuing to creep across it. “Th-Thank you.”

“I speak only the truth.”

“Well, still.” Bernadetta smiles and closes her sketchbook. “Um, that’s everything I have right now,” she says, tapping her pencil against her chin. “I—I kinda wanted to draw more, but now I’m—” a yawn cuts her off “—really sleepy…”

“Who are you, Linhardt?” teases Hubert, but still he shifts closer. His immediate instinct is to offer Bernadetta his cloak, but even with the wind it’s far too warm for that. Instead: “Well, if you wish to remain here, feel free to rest upon my shoulder. I’ve nothing else to attend to.”

“Wh—seriously?”

“Would I offer otherwise?” As Bernadetta averts her gaze, Hubert huffs out a long-suffering laugh. “Besides, you wouldn’t be the first, I’m afraid. Linhardt has beaten you to the punch in that regard.”

“Oh, of course he has,” says Bernadetta, shaking her head. “He falls asleep on Caspar all the time.”

“Yes, I have witnessed that myself.” Many a time has Hubert watched with simultaneous amusement and secondhand embarrassment as Linhardt has dozed off in a public place and fallen upon the shoulder of the closest person (more often than not, Caspar, who always tries to shake Linhardt back to consciousness with varying amounts of success). “If you don’t wish to sleep here,” adds Hubert at the caged look in Bernadetta’s eyes, “I shall gladly walk you back to your quarters. My prior offer, however, stands.”

“R-Right, sorry! I was just thinking.” Bernadetta looks away. She slides back, now pressed entirely against the tree trunk, and sets her sketchbook on the grass beside her. With another furtive glance Hubert’s way, she pulls her knees to her chest. “You’ll look out for me, right? Make sure nothing happens while I’m sleeping?”

Bernadetta’s words could be interpreted as telling him to keep a watchful eye out for bandits and such. But Hubert knows she’s referring to her tendency to mumble and yelp in her sleep, plagued with gruesome nightmares, the exact nature of which she hasn’t even shared with him.

He has suspicions, though. They’d all survived—in the loosest sense of the term—the war, but there had been scars left beyond those on their skin. And though her father (and that seems too kind a word to refer to him as; he doesn’t deserve to have their technical relationship acknowledged) is long gone, his legacy remains.

Hubert’s hand tightens into a fist at the thought of that man. Such a disgusting person puts Hubert’s own father to shame.

But he needn’t burden Bernadetta with such thoughts when she’s trying to avoid them. “I always do,” he says, and not just to say it. He means it. To prove it, he holds Bernadetta’s gaze as long as she allows, letting her see the conviction in his stare.

“Thank you,” says Bernadetta, barely above a whisper.

And then she rests her head on his shoulder. Though it takes her some time, shifting and muttering all the while, she does find sleep. Hubert, though not tired himself, lets the tranquil mood settle over him.

And, as promised, he makes sure she’s safe.

**iii.**

It’s a dark but not stormy night when Hubert is jarred from a half-drafted letter by a knock at the door to his study.

“Hubert,” comes a voice from outside, and he’s surprised to recognize it as Petra.

Though they’re friends in their own right, he hadn’t expected to see her this week. Most of her visit to Enbarr thus far has been spent with Dorothea—then again, perhaps even the most devoted of people get tired of seeing the same opera six nights in a row. (Edelgard seems to not be subject to that; she’s seeing Dorothea tonight as usual.)

“I am needing your assistance,” continues Petra. A moment later, she adds, as though it’s an afterthought, “Please.”

Hubert glances, fleeting, at his letter. Loath as he is to admit it, his gaze is already starting to grow unfocused, so he pushes the sheets of parchment forward and goes to get the door. Petra is standing with her hair undone, lit by the sconces of the hallway. Hubert ushers her in with little fanfare.

“Good to see you, Petra. What seems to be the problem?” he asks once the door is shut.

Petra’s eyebrows draw together. “I am not having a problem, exactly,” she says, “but I am wishing for your help with something. Are you minding?”

Though facing Petra head-on, Hubert’s bleary gaze darts toward his desk once more. He attempts to rub the weariness out of his eyes. “No, of course not. What is it you need help with?”

“My hair.”

“Your… hair.” Of all the things Hubert had anticipated, that hadn’t been one. “Elaborate, if you will.”

“Well, Dorothea has been telling me you have great skill at braiding, because you have been helping with her and Ferdinand’s hair. So I have been wondering if you would be liking—if you would like,” corrects Petra, “to assist with mine tonight.” She brushes some of it off her shoulders. “I am usually fixing it myself before I will be sleeping, but I have much exhaustion from all of the meetings I was having today.”

“Ah,” says Hubert, still blinking with surprise. With how much Dorothea had been talking about spending time with her dearest Petra, he’d almost forgotten she was here for political reasons. “That’s understandable, but—are you certain? I imagine I’m not as practiced as, say, Dorothea.”

“Perhaps not.” Petra’s face twists into something almost guilty, and then she says with all her usual frankness, “But I am believing you are my only option.”

Hubert mentally runs over who else could help with her hair—anyone she’d trust enough is out tonight, taking care of a handful of professional and personal businesses alike. “Yes, I suppose that is true. As you wish, then.” He sweeps a hand toward the nearby couch. “Take a seat, if you so wish. I shall be with you momentarily.”

And, with an inadvertent yet dramatic swish of his cloak, he returns to his desk. While it’s in part to come to a reasonable stopping point in the letter, it’s also to regain his composure. Though he has, indeed, helped with Dorothea and Ferdinand’s hair in the past—as well as assisting Edelgard with the occasional trim—there’s never been any semblance of expectation to it. He finds himself unsure of what to do, and he’s never taken well to that feeling.

When he can no longer prolong the inevitable, Hubert sets his quill down and joins Petra on the couch (more of a lounge, in truth). The sprawl of Petra’s hair is intimidating just to look at.

“You didn’t specify what sort of style you would like,” notes Hubert, one hand hovering behind her. “Is there anything you’re particularly inclined toward?”

Petra hums. “Something with simplicity. It is to be helping my hair stay intact while I am sleeping.”

“I see. Will a braid work?”

“That should be working fine,” says Petra, and though her back is to Hubert, he can hear the smile in her voice, putting him at slight ease. “If you are having any more questions, I am happy to help.”

Hubert is compelled to bow just for show—for whom, he’s uncertain, because Petra can’t see him. He refrains, if only because he figures he should otherwise occupy his hands. “All right,” he says, and gets to work.

Petra’s hair is remarkably well-kept. That should be no surprise, given the visible care she puts into it every day, but Hubert still finds himself blinking at how smooth it is to the touch. He parts it into several portions, one over each shoulder and one in the back. As he’s starting to cross the sections over each other, forming a basic but functional braid, something occurs to him.

“Petra?” He’s answered with another hum, a questioning lilt to it. “Do you have any sort of ribbon on you, perchance?”

“Oh! I am not having one, no,” says Petra, apologetic. “Are you in need of one?”

“Yes, to tie the braid—but no need to worry. I’m sure I have one stored away somewhere.” He stands and heads back over to his desk, where he rifles through the drawers while Petra—he assumes—sits still. His suspicions are confirmed when he turns to find her in more or less the same exact position she had been in last he looked.

When Hubert returns, it’s with a pale gold ribbon that he’s certain actually belongs to Ferdinand. Petra crows at the sight.

To Petra’s occasional hums or comments, Hubert continues fixing her hair. It doesn’t take very long, and the result is nothing more than a perfunctory braid, not aesthetically appealing in any particular way. Nothing like the complex styles Petra puts together every morning. It appears more like something Linhardt would devise. (Hubert has long suspected it was pure laziness that led to him growing his hair out rather than any sort of plan or even an accident as with Ferdinand—though he also suspects there had been _some_ intent there, because it seems improbable for anyone, even Ferdinand von Aegir, to grow their hair out to their waist by sheer accident. To that extent, Linhardt hasn’t joined in on Petra, Dorothea, and Ferdinand’s… club, as it were, because he doesn’t care about styling his hair.)

Though the style is far from perfect or glamorous, it makes Petra beam like it’s the most elegant look possible. “Thank you, Hubert!” she says, bowing as best she can. “I have much gratitude.”

“It was the least I could do.” Hubert flushes despite himself. He has no romantic inclinations toward Petra, but he had meant what he said years ago (what a novel concept; it feels as though it’s been both centuries and no time at all): Her friendship is important to him. After all this time, it may be as dear to him as Edelgard’s. Though he can’t keep from comparing the two every now and then, he supposes they’ve drawn even in regards to his affection. “Speaking of which, do you need an escort back to your quarters?”

At that, Petra pauses. She twirls the end of her braid around a finger. “Would it not be all right for me to be staying here?”

For the nth time tonight, Hubert finds himself taken aback. He’s not often startled, so he’s somewhat concerned with how many times he’s been taken off-guard in the past thirty minutes alone. “Is that what you desire?”

“If you are also wishing it, then yes,” says Petra, startlingly earnest as ever. A spark of determination fills her eyes. “I am wanting to spend more time with you, Hubert. You have been saying my friendship is important to you—you are an important friend to me as well.”

“Oh—” Unbidden, an open smile crosses Hubert’s face. “Thank you, Petra. That… truly means a lot to me. I can tell you mean it, too—you are almost troublingly sincere.”

Petra’s head tilts. “Am I to be taking that as a compliment?”

“Take it how you will. It was only an observation. In any case,” he continues with a dignified clear of the throat, in part to rid it of the troublesome lump that had risen, “yes, it is perfectly fine for you to stay here. But as for, ah, sleeping logistics—”

“I am not seeing any reason why we cannot be sharing.”

“…Indeed. My quarters are a comfortable size for both of us, I feel.” Hubert stands and offers his hand to Petra, who gracefully allows him to help her up—though she has no real need of the assistance, it seems the proper thing to do. “Shall we?”

(He wakes up with, though they’d been facing opposite directions when they’d fallen asleep, Petra’s head tucked under his chin and part of her braid, half-undone with sleep, in his mouth. He spits it out but falls right back asleep.)

**iv.**

“Every time I think you have exhausted your potential for idiocy, you somehow manage to outdo yourself.”

Caspar’s face, risen from its usual height by the mound of pillows behind him, scrunches up. “That’s not very nice, Hubert,” he says, immediately proving Hubert’s predictions about how this would go right. “I’m injured here and the first thing you do is insult me? Even Linhardt was nicer.”

The infirmary is empty save for them, and light is streaming in through the nearby window. Hubert is standing at Caspar’s bedside with his arms crossed. Caspar is sitting upright against the wall of pillows. Gauze covers most of his torso and part of his face—Hubert assumes it’s to make his situation appear more dramatic, as the healers had assured him a bit of healing magic and rest would clear him up in no time.

Hubert’s frown tightens. “First off, you merely sustained a couple of flesh wounds. Though if it weren’t for Linhardt’s support, you may have been worse off. Second—”

“Seriously, you’re gonna lecture me now?”

“Would you rather I do so when you’re awake enough to fully process all of it?” asks Hubert, drumming his nails on his arm. “Because, on second thought, I may prefer that as well. You’ll have a better chance of growing from your mistakes if you actually know what those mistakes were.”

“Um,” says Caspar, clearly sensing a trap. Good, so he still has some wits about him. “Well—”

Hubert laughs, a harsh bark of sound that fills the room. “Be aware that this anger is born of care, however misplaced,” he says with grave sincerity. “If it weren’t, you would undoubtedly have been taken out already.”

“Hubert,” says Caspar, just as serious, “are you going to kill me? Because you sound like you’re gonna kill me.”

“No. Absolutely not. What did I just say?” With a beleaguered sigh, Hubert takes a single step toward the bed. It makes Caspar’s wounds come into clearer view, as well as the existing scars visible around the bandages, and Hubert’s heartbeat takes on a nervous rhythm. “As the Minister of Military Affairs, you should know better. Yet you rushed into danger against several heavily armed foes without considering your safety or that of anyone around you. You also failed to inform anyone of your decision, which I surmise was spontaneous at best. Pointlessly, you’ve endangered your life and inspired worry from those who care for you—”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Good Goddess.” Caspar frowns, petulant. Unasked guilt passes over Hubert—had he gone too far? “Honestly, you should be thanking me, not scolding me. I basically saved Edelgard’s life.”

That gives Hubert pause. “What? What does Lady Edelgard have to do with this?”

“Uh, the dudes I took out?” _That almost took _you_ out,_ Hubert wants to correct, but Caspar’s expression is dead serious, so he doesn’t move to interrupt. “They were talking about assassinating the emperor. Even if it was just talk, I couldn’t let that happen, so I had to make a move. Did no one tell you?” adds Caspar, seeming as bewildered as Hubert feels.

“I… no, no one informed me.” Already, his thoughts are racing—a possible attempt against Lady Edelgard’s life that he wasn’t made aware of, even after the fact?—but he steps into a bow regardless. “I suppose you’re right, then. I _should_ thank you. Even if your methods were—questionable.”

“Whoa, whoa, there’s no need for all of that either,” says Caspar, looking more put-out. “I was just doing my duty, yeah?”

“Ah—quite.” Hubert sighs, folded arms tightening. He’s torn between storming out in search of some _conversations_, cloak ablow, and taking a seat in one of the chairs that line the room to cool himself off first. He does neither. “Well, I suppose it can’t be helped. Move over.”

Caspar blinks. “Huh?”

“Did you sustain an ear injury as well? Move over.” At Caspar’s continued blank expression, reminiscent of a dead fish, Hubert sighs once more. “I would like to get some work and thinking done—” he pulls a pen and stack of paperwork out of his cloak to prove it “—and I see no reason to leave you here alone.”

After a moment of continuing to look confused, Caspar’s expression softens. “Aw, Hubert,” he says, teasing despite the slight flush in his cheeks, “you can just say you want to spend time with me.” Under Hubert’s glare, he laughs and obliges.

In truth, there isn’t room for two grown men on the subpar infirmary bed—there likely wouldn’t be much to spare for Hubert on his own, given his stature. Regardless, they make it work. Hubert keeps his sharp elbows away from the bandages on Caspar’s torso. Even numbed from the healing and vulneraries, Hubert is sure there’s some discomfort, given how often Caspar pushes his limits and refuses to acknowledge it.

It becomes clear after only a couple of minutes that Caspar may be incapable of sitting still. (Which Hubert has always noticed, but in his peripheral vision, not something that has concerned him but that he’s noted in case it ever came to be a burden to Edelgard. It hadn’t, so he’d almost forgotten over the years.) As the quiet stretches on, filled with the scratch of Hubert’s quill against the paper held awkwardly in his lap, Caspar grows more and more restless. His hands wring. He fidgets with the sheets. His legs bounce and bump against Hubert’s. On occasion, he even makes a feeble attempt to move his entire body with a stilted shuffle that brings to mind memories of the White Heron Cup.

“Are you doing this on purpose?” Hubert asks the third time he nearly rips through the parchment when Caspar’s leg thuds into his.

“Sorry,” says Caspar, having the decency to sound sheepish. “Bed rest is the worst. I’ve gotta _move_, you know? I’ve gotta get back up as soon as possible.”

“We aren’t at war anymore.” Or, at the very least, not a war Caspar is participating in—Hubert had long ago decided, given his reckless tendencies, it was much safer to keep him as far away from the wars of the shadows as possible. “You can relax.”

“Huh? That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t—what, then?” says Hubert, flushing at his inclination to outright admit he doesn’t understand.

“It’s not really about fighting.” Caspar runs a hand through his hair—and then winces, for his arms have the most bandages of all. “It’s just about, I dunno, being? Doing? More doing, I guess—every second longer I have to spend here, I feel more and more like something bad is gonna happen, and all because I wasn’t around to help,” he confesses without taking a single breath. “I wanna be out there, you know? Not cooped up in this stupid hospital bed.”

“Well—” Hubert weighs his answer. What he might tell himself or anyone else is different from what Caspar wants to hear, but he doesn’t know what exact words Caspar would like, and compromise doesn’t come easily to him. “I can’t tell you to abandon that feeling or even overcome it,” he decides, words clipped. “However, I can tell you that the world will not stop turning while you’re in recovery—” rich of him to say, he knows “—and that so long as you are here, your duties will be carried out by very capable people. Including myself.” The blunt end of his pen raps against the paper in his lap. “Does that ease you at least somewhat?”

It takes Caspar a few seconds to answer, and when he does, his voice is awed and slightly hoarse. “Huh. Y’know what, it does! Not completely—I still really wanna get up and do stuff—but it does make me feel better. Thanks, Hubert.”

“Just doing my duty, as you said,” says Hubert, inclining his head so Caspar doesn’t see his fleeting smile.

Caspar continues moving, but less distractingly this time—his body is still angled toward Hubert, but Hubert sees no need to stop him. Birds chirp outside as Hubert continues writing.

Before long, it comes to his attention that Caspar is being troublingly quiet. He glances over to find Caspar asleep—and still restless. Caspar’s head twitches this way and that, and his legs writhe, brushing Hubert’s every now and then. If it weren’t so fitting, Hubert may have accused him of feigning sleep. …Then again, he also knows what a poor actor Caspar is, too hotheaded and ruled by his own feelings to try on anyone else’s. It’s one of the things about him Hubert is most annoyed by—and one of the things he respects the most.

Caspar’s head droops onto Hubert’s shoulder. Already, drool is trailing from the corner of his mouth. With a grimace, Hubert wipes a streak of it from Caspar’s chin and proceeds to wipe it away. He has a feeling he’ll have to do that often if he’d like to keep it off of his cloak, and it won’t do to have his gloves sullied with saliva.

While he’s at it, Hubert does his best to tame Caspar’s unruly bedhead. Each individual hair is pointing a different direction, so it’s a lost cause, and Hubert gives up as soon as he’d begun. Several loose blue hairs have come off on his glove—somehow, Caspar sheds the most hair out of them all, almost more so than his cat. And yet he still has a full head of hair (save the shaved portion). Hubert shakes the loose strands off with a disgruntled huff.

Some minutes later, Caspar begins to snore. Hubert jolts at the sound, fixing Caspar with a glare though he knows it’ll do very little—it makes him feel better, which is enough.

Caspar hadn’t fallen asleep on his dominant side, at least, so Hubert is more than free to continue with his work. He brushes his shoulder against Caspar’s before doing so.

(If, later, Hubert shifts his free arm to rest around Caspar, providing an absent but solid wall of protection, that’s no one’s business but theirs and that of the healer who finds them a couple of hours later.)

**v.**

Though Edelgard must have better things to do with her time than attend nearly every performance of the Mittelfrank Opera Company’s prized songstress, she does so regardless. And of course, though he knows he has more efficient things to do, Hubert accompanies her whenever possible.

In contrast to Edelgard and Ferdinand’s exuberance over Manuela’s singing, Hubert has never been one for the opera. The bloody drama is admirable, but he wouldn’t consider himself a musically-inclined person. However, it’s grown on him over the years—in no short part due to Dorothea’s operas. Her passion and skill know no bounds; while enthusiasm of that caliber isn’t contagious, or at least not to Hubert, he does admire it.

So he sits with rapt attention as Dorothea and the rest of the company perform. Every now and then he’ll watch Edelgard’s reactions with amusement, turning to face her in their private box and chuckling under his breath as she watches with childlike glee, almost incognizant of his presence. The pyrotechnics light up her eyes. The two of them are both on their feet with fervent applause at the curtain call.

After the show, Hubert is also at Edelgard’s side outside Dorothea’s dressing room. It takes only a single knock for the door to swing open as though Dorothea had been expecting them. And of course Dorothea would be visited by none other than Her Majesty and the Minister of the Imperial Household—why would it be any other way?

Dorothea looks worn but alive. A bright smile rests on her face, which seems to glow even with her makeup half-gone. “Hi,” she says, and without another word, she gestures Edelgard and Hubert inside.

Once the door is closed again, Dorothea leans down to kiss Edelgard on both cheeks, leaving smears of dark lipstick. It makes Edelgard sigh out a chuckle. With a quick squeeze to Edelgard’s hand that she returns, Dorothea moves onto Hubert to greet him in the same fashion, her heels making it so she doesn’t have to lean up too far. He stands ramrod-straight as she pecks his cheeks. An unseemly flush fills his face, and he knows Dorothea notices from how she laughs.

“Always so serious, Hubie,” she chides, patting his cheek. This only embarrasses him further. Dorothea laughs once more before stepping back to face both him and Edelgard. “It’s lovely to see both of you. You sure have a way of making a girl feel special, showing up to my dressing room like this.” She bats her eyelashes as though this doesn’t happen often. Then she glances around. “Oh, but where’s Ferdie? He usually comes with you.”

“He’s in—”

Dorothea snaps her fingers, cutting Edelgard off. “Brigid! That’s right, Petra was telling me about him visiting soon. Still, it’s too bad he couldn’t see my performance,” she adds. “He does love the opera.”

“Yes, I imagine he’ll complain at length about it,” says Hubert. “To spare us all, I suggest you give him a one-woman show upon his return.”

“He’ll be singing for weeks,” interjects Edelgard. “Are you certain you want to subject us all to that?”

“Aw, Ferdie’s singing is cute. Don’t you think so, Hubie?”

He answers only with a glare, which is an answer in and of itself. Edelgard clicks her tongue. “You’re losing your edge, Hubert,” she says with an exaggerated, overdramatic shake of the head. (Then again, that is in the spirit of the night’s entertainment.) “But as cute as it may be—” she says _cute_ the way one might say _venomous spider_ “—listening to him sing under his breath during important meetings is far from ideal.”

“I’ll weigh the pros and cons later.” Dorothea, graceful as ever, flicks her hair over her shoulder. “Edie, do you want to stay for a drink? Just tea, I promise. And of course you’re invited too, Hubie.”

Before Hubert can so much as scoff, Edelgard sighs, remorseful. “I would love to—but unfortunately, I can’t. I must depart for Fódlan’s Locket first thing tomorrow morning, and I fear if I stay, I won’t be up at a reasonable hour.”

“That’s probably true,” Dorothea admits. She pats Edelgard’s shoulder. “Too bad—I suppose we’ll just have to talk over tea once you’re back, hm?” Edelgard nods with relief. “Well, in the meantime, Hubie can keep me company. Can’t you, Hubie?”

The bluntness of the question startles a laugh—albeit a short one—out of Hubert. He only has to consider for a moment. His pulse quickens at the thought of leaving Edelgard to fend for herself, but she has plenty of other subordinates to watch over her in his stead, and he isn’t accompanying her to Fódlan’s Locket (though he’d certainly fought tooth-and-nail to).

“Well, with an order like that,” he says, hand over his chest in a somewhat mocking bow, “how am I to refuse?”

“Very well,” says Edelgard. “Then I shall leave you to it. I’ll speak to both of you soon.”

She allows Dorothea to kiss her cheeks again before taking her leave with little more than a smile (Hubert elects to ignore the wink in his direction). Hubert suspects she’ll be wiping that lipstick off of her face in the corridor. No one should notice a few sections of her dress being a couple of shades darker, after all.

As soon as the door shuts behind Edelgard, Dorothea ushers Hubert over to the couch, velvety and red and covered in throw pillows he thinks were embroidered by Bernadetta. “Do you want anything to drink, Hubie?” asks Dorothea. “Tea, perhaps?”

He can’t help an instinctive wince, which makes Dorothea giggle. “No, nothing of the sort,” he says as he sits. “Your mere presence is enough. Thank you, though.”

“Fine, fine,” says Dorothea, apparently deciding to take mercy on his half-hearted flirting this once. She gives an exaggerated sigh. “I was planning on making myself a cup, but I suppose it can wait.”

“Oh, you needn’t deprive yourself for my sake—”

“Please, Hubie,” she interrupts with a wink, “your presence is sustaining enough for me too.” Ah. He’d spoken too soon.

Dorothea joins him on the couch, where she sprawls across his lap, cat-like and languid, and peers up at him with a smile. Not her sharp-edged smile, but a gentle and open one. Hubert’s been on the receiving end of it far too often to still be uncertain of how to react.

“So what was your favorite part of the opera, Hubie?”

Several responses flicker through his mind, but he decides to be as sincere as possible: “I quite enjoyed your solo at the end. It was a fine way to wrap everything else up, especially your character’s arc. And the special effects were a nice touch—Lady Edelgard was quite fond of them as well.”

Dorothea’s lips part in shock. “I didn’t expect you to have a real response to that, to be honest,” she confesses—it’s somewhat gratifying to be able to fluster her. “But… thank you. I do appreciate that.”

“Of course.” His hands hover stiffly at his sides for a moment before he runs one through Dorothea’s silky hair. She tilts her head into the touch with a pleased—if surprised—hum. “Your songwriting was also top-notch, as per the usual,” continues Hubert. “I presume you composed the majority of the libretto?”

“Indeed. It isn’t my best work, I have to admit,” says Dorothea, face twisting and then clearing, “but I am pretty happy with how it turned out. I’m glad to hear you enjoyed it.”

“‘Enjoyed’ is perhaps an understatement.”

“That’s sweet of you to say. And awfully nice to hear.” Dorothea chuckles, plain joy in it, and leans up to kiss his cheek again. She settles back across his lap with a content exhale and stretches out even further. Her eyes fall shut as she curls toward him. “You don’t mind if I fall asleep like this, do you?”

A sense of calm, Hubert finds, is beginning to overcome him as well. Embarrassing—but it had been a long week. Hubert continues running a hand through Dorothea’s hair with a hum. In the meantime, he uses his free hand to slip one of the pillows on the couch—for certain Bernadetta’s work, now that he looks at it up close, neat stitches depicting the face of a cat—beneath Dorothea’s head. She smiles and leans back into it.

“Feel free,” says Hubert. “In fact, I may partake myself.”

Dorothea laughs. “The Minister of the Imperial Household spending the night in the dressing room of the songstress of the Mittelfrank Opera Company? This is how rumors spread, you know.”

“I never said I would spend the night, did I?”

“So you’re going to sneak out in the middle of the night while I’m sleeping? My, that’s even more scandalous.”

“Perhaps,” allows Hubert. “But just this once, I don’t mind.”

**vi.**

Take a single horse to Rusalka, Edelgard said. It’ll be fun, she said.

All right, so she hadn’t used that exact terminology, nor had she made the decision, but that had been the gist of her encouragements. For some reason, Hubert—perhaps born out of deep-seated sentimentality (though aloud he’d insisted it was related to conserving supplies and energy, and that had indeed been a factor despite the sly look on Ferdinand’s face)—had been the one to seal his fate.

Twenty-five minutes on a horse with Ferdinand are enough to make him regret it.

Hubert had attempted to mitigate some of the discomfort by arranging for one of the larger steeds of the Imperial collection and sitting in front. That way, at least, he would be spared from having Ferdinand’s long hair blown backward into his face, which Hubert knows from experience is less than ideal, if one calls _suffocating and unsanitary_ “less than ideal.” Hubert had even made a case for the ease of spellcasting from this position should they run into any trouble in their journey. (Which, given the state of the world, is more than probable.)

He had failed to account for the fact that he is terrible at horseback riding. And that Ferdinand, on the other hand, quite excels at it—and has a bone to pick with the concept of staying silent for longer than, it seems, twenty-five minutes.

Which leads to, interspersed with one-sided conversations on Ferdinand’s behalf, many exchanges such as the following:

“Hubert?”

“Yes?”

“We are going in the wrong direction. Veer right.”

“Oh. So we are.” And Hubert tugs on the reins, steering the horse to—indeed—the right, and they continue on until he makes another mishap.

It isn’t that he doesn’t like horses. They’re fine, he supposes, even if he’s far from as enamored with them as Ferdinand has always been. Horses, however, don’t like _him_. He’s never been good with animals; much like most humans, they tend to run from them rather than eat from the palm of his hand with tender and adoring eyes. This particular horse tolerates him, but it’s been exposed to him from an early age—however, it’s also Ferdinand’s horse first and foremost, meaning it isn’t prone to taking others’ instructions and veers off the path all on its own.

Also, all of the trails out here look the same, and it’s difficult to check a map while riding a horse. Hardly Hubert’s fault, that.

“Hubie—”

“What is it? Are we going the wrong way again?” Hubert’s voice is a bit terse—he still doesn’t quite know how to react to people other than Dorothea calling him by that nickname.

“No, just—” Rather than continuing, Ferdinand settles his hands on either side of Hubert’s waist, holding onto him with a firm yet gentle grip. Hubert is suddenly short of breath. “It is easier to stay on board this way, is it not? Should, say, Midnight be startled and attempt to throw us off.”

“I—suppose so.”

“Not, of course, that I am suggesting she will,” adds Ferdinand, quick. “I have complete and utter faith in your skills. This is simply a precaution. Of course.”

“Of course,” says Hubert, only slightly mocking.

Ferdinand scoffs, meaning he’s taken it as much more mocking, but he does nothing other than dig his fingers into Hubert’s sides, letting up after about ten seconds. He hasn’t the heart to be malicious in any way that hurts. An admirable trait, to be certain, if not one Hubert has ever striven to attain himself.

After a moment, Ferdinand speaks up again. “Ah, I had been pondering what this reminded me of, but I think I have finally realized: Back at Garreg Mach, when Professor Byleth put us on stable duty.”

This had been the cause of a good portion of Hubert’s grudge against Byleth in those idyllic academy—and less idyllic wartime—days. “Indeed.”

“As I recall, you were rather cantankerous about the whole ordeal,” continues Ferdinand, a hint of amusement to his tone. “Even after we began to get along.”

“I was not,” says Hubert with a sniff, but he knows it’s a poor—and outright false—defense.

“You were.”

“I—well—you were just as bad,” is the petulant response he comes up with, only further proving Ferdinand’s point.

“Yes, that is probably true.” Ferdinand huffs out a laugh that ghosts across the back of Hubert’s neck. “Still, it was enjoyable, in a certain way—a welcome distraction, if nothing else. I appreciated getting to spend time with you without bickering.”

“Without bickering? Your memories are very clearly different from my own.”

“All right, perhaps that was an oversimplification. There was in fact much bickering,” says Ferdinand, undercut with another laugh. “But I truly did enjoy it—it was a welcome distraction when the conditions were… not the best.” He could be referring to either their rocky prior relationship or the war; or, more likely than not, both. “And—I enjoy this as well.”

His voice is almost quiet enough to be lost in the wind, but Hubert hears nonetheless. He almost wants to stop the horse so he can face Ferdinand, if only for a moment, but he restrains himself. The sun is beginning to set, so they’ll be able to make camp within the hour.

“As do I,” he says after a moment, surprised at how easily the admission slips out. “The conditions are not the best now, either, but—yes, I suppose this is nice.”

“Ah,” is all Ferdinand says, pleased.

And then he wraps his arms in full around Hubert’s waist. Hubert makes some sort of sound, he’s sure—given the sheer force of nature that is Ferdinand’s personality, he often forgets that years of horseback riding and fighting have made him quite strong indeed. The grip seems both slack and too-tight all at once.

For some time, neither moves again save for Hubert tugging on the reins of the horse, now more confident. The only sounds are the whistle of the wind and the thudding of the horse’s—Midnight, had Ferdinand said her name was?—hooves against the soft earth.

Then there comes a quiet thumping sound, so faint that Hubert assumes he’s imagined it until the weight on his back increases. At first, he assumes Ferdinand’s simply slumped forward to be closer—it wouldn’t be the first time.

Early on, it had been—unnerving, to say the least, how tactile Ferdinand was—more so than even Dorothea, whose teasing touches are purposeful rather than reflexive. It still is, in some ways. Hubert, having lived a life of deliberate restraint and self-awareness, isn’t used to displaying affection through touch even now. He’d quite literally taken ill after his and Ferdinand’s bare hands had brushed for the first time. Ferdinand had laughed for ages about it, as though he himself hadn’t almost fainted upon being confessed to (several times over, if the tales of the others were to be believed).

When a significant amount of time passes and Ferdinand hasn’t spoken another word, it becomes apparent something is off. Hubert halts the horse. Around him, the world is still—but he can make out faint yet rhythmic breathing, the rising and falling of a chest, and a pattern of exhales that rise gooseflesh on the back of his neck.

So Ferdinand had fallen asleep. Hubert takes a moment to marvel at how often he’s found himself in this position as of late—and how one can fall asleep on a moving horse. For an instant, he considers waking him, but that seems too cruel, and the added warmth is much appreciated.

He pats one of Ferdinand’s hands where it’s wrapped around his waist, tugs on the horse’s reins, and continues on.

**vii.**

Hubert eyes the closed door to Edelgard’s study with apprehension. She told Hubert she would be inside this afternoon, and the door indicates she wishes to be left alone (or perhaps with someone else, if she has company; she hadn’t made it clear either way), but he does have business to inform her of. If she wishes to prolong her solitude, he’s very practiced in the field of intimidation.

He raises his fist to knock. A moment passes, and no response is forthcoming.

“Your Majesty, the Albinean ambassador is here to meet with you. I can and will turn them away if you so please—I would delight in doing so—but I wished to inform you beforehand.”

Still no answer. Hubert frowns and knocks again, pressing his ear to the door.

“Your Majesty?”

Again, not a word. Not even a sign of life within—not Edelgard’s voice or footsteps, nor even the sound of a chair sliding out. Perhaps he had misheard her earlier, or she had left without informing him? Unlikely, but the doubt still lingers.

Hubert raps on the door once more. “Your Majesty, I’m coming in.”

He unlocks and pushes open the door, as gentle as possible, and blinks at the scene before him. Edelgard is indeed in the room and seated at her desk—but she’s slumped forward, hair spilling across the surface, and not moving.

Hubert’s blood runs colder than usual. His thoughts stammer to a halt. The door swings shut behind him, unnoticed, as he rushes forward and, each move measured but hasty, pushes aside Edelgard’s hair. He presses his fingers to her neck to check her pulse. It is calm and steady underneath his touch—alive, without a doubt, though slower than he might expect.

He doesn’t breathe again until he can feel her doing the same. Then, eyes falling shut with relief that his emperor has not been poisoned or otherwise taken out with him (spymaster, head of House Vestra, always as many steps as possible ahead of his—or rather, her—opponents) left none the wiser, he allows the pace of his breathing to match hers. It’s as slow and steady as her heartbeat.

Unconscious. Edelgard is sleeping (albeit in an ill-advised position that will cause neck and back pain). In retrospect, it would have been the natural assumption—with a locked room and window and no source of food or drink in the room, assassination except by magic means would be near impossible—but his usual wit has been made useless by panic.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” murmurs Hubert. The fact that she can’t hear him in her current state only adds to his embarrassment.

Now, though, he’s left with the dilemma of what to do. He must inform the ambassador of Edelgard’s unavailability, but there are plenty of guest rooms at their disposal in the meantime.

At the moment, however, he cannot leave Edelgard in this position. He’s slept in unsuitable situations as well—more often than he’d like to admit, as a matter of fact—but he is not the emperor. He supposes it falls upon him to provide whatever assistance he can.

Hence, Hubert—moving slowly so as not to wake Edelgard—picks her up. It’s something he hasn’t done since he was young, reveling in his growth spurt (he had been a late bloomer, so there had been a brief time where Edelgard was taller than he), and it’s much more of a struggle now. Given her musculature, she weighs more than her height would suggest. Still, with the presence she carries, it’s almost a surprise how light she is once he adjusts.

Edelgard’s head lolls against Hubert’s chest. He adjusts his grip with a grunt, allowing her to lean more heavily against him. Were he in a more thoughtful state, he’d weave a narrative of how he keeps her steady and upright as her most stalwart companion. But his shakiness has only been added to by her weight, so he steers his thoughts away from such poetic waters.

For a split second, Hubert considers parading through the halls like a madman to return Edelgard to her quarters, pausing around every corner to catch his breath.

Then he remembers he can warp right to them. Less taxing, less humiliating, and—most of all—less troublesome.

After all, were someone to see the Minister of the Imperial Household carrying the sleeping emperor toward her quarters, rumors would no doubt arise. Baseless drivel, of course. Despite the placement of Hubert’s affections in his younger days, Edelgard is one of the only two of their former classmates with whom he is not romantically involved—and yet most gossip tends to accumulate around the two of them, something that never ceases to amuse (and frustrate) them. There’s little that can be done to prevent it altogether, but Hubert still feels he should do all he can to discourage such nonsense. It keeps him and Edelgard sane, if nothing else.

Now that he recalls its existence, he casts a warp spell to teleport to Edelgard’s quarters in the blink of an eye. Edelgard doesn’t so much as stir.

Hubert has, of course, been within Edelgard’s quarters. There are many discussions they must keep out of the public eye for safety’s or simple privacy’s sake. So he knows his way around, and, still carrying Edelgard, he makes his way toward her bed without hesitation.

He sets her down as gently as he can. She still doesn’t move, and Hubert is more than grateful; though he’d appreciate the chance to explain why she’s back in her room, he’d rather chloroform himself than speak of his embarrassing lack of composure, which she would no doubt make him disclose.

He can’t help but take a moment to appreciate how peaceful Edelgard looks. He doesn’t see her asleep often, so he’s forgotten how it soothes the lines of tension in her face. She looks as carefree now as she did as a child. Though the sight fills Hubert with affection, it also stirs remorse for the life she could have had—the life she deserved. A tranquil life rather than a tumultuous one, paved with trauma and pain from an age far too young to have to deal with such things.

Hubert doesn’t regret his own path, but he does despite what Edelgard has gone through, what she’s had to do to achieve all she has. Had things gone his way, he would have been the only one to dirty his hands of the entire Black Eagle Strike Force. He had always known his life would be one stained with blood. It had been explained to him from a young age, his father’s gloved hands on his shoulders as he told him what House Vestra was known for, how it operated.

Hubert had also always known that he would do everything he could to keep his emperor and all those who stood beside her from being stained, too. In the end, though, he couldn’t save her or the others.

A quiet sigh escapes him. While it would suit his reputation, it would be creepy if he were to stand here and watch Edelgard sleep. He averts his gaze to take stock of the room at large. Edelgard runs warm as it is, so she won’t need any blankets. Her hair is undone, her posture one that will not put her in pain, and her clothes not prone to wrinkling. There’s nothing left for Hubert to do but speak with the Albinean ambassador.

So he presses a fleeting kiss to Edelgard’s forehead—while his feelings for her are no longer tinted a romantic hue, that doesn’t mean he loves her any less. “Sleep well, Your Majesty,” he whispers.

And then he warps out again to allow Edelgard her rest.

She’s earned it, after all.

**viii.**

Rarely are all of the former Black Eagles in a single room. This is a simple fact—given all of their individual responsibilities, they don’t often get the time to even pair off, let alone all gather at once.

Yet against the laws of time and space, this truth universally acknowledged has been defied. All eight, now, are dozing in a conference room, and as is wont to happen when any number of them are together, any semblance of professionalism has been gone for well over a half-hour now. They’re clustered together like flowers in a vibrant field, curving toward one another like stems reaching for the sun.

Hubert, of course, is in the middle of it all—and the only one awake. The immense weight surrounding him on all sides is somewhat painful; the heat generated from the pile is less so but still more difficult to ignore when coming from all sides.

With her back pressed to his, as though watching it, is Petra. Linhardt—the instigator of this, for who else would fall asleep unprompted during a serious meeting?—is resting against one side, head on Hubert’s shoulder. Beside him is Edelgard; her arms are crossed, and she looks austere even in sleep. Caspar is stretched across Linhardt and Edelgard’s legs to snore into Hubert’s thigh. On the opposite side are Ferdinand—arm pressed solidly against Hubert’s as he stretches out—and Dorothea—curled toward Hubert’s chest with one hand intertwined with Ferdinand’s. Her free hand is resting atop the head of Bernadetta, who has her back to Hubert’s chest.

Were anyone to walk in, it would be quite the scene. However, the only one anyone would expect to enter a private meeting of the Empire’s most elite and the ruler of Brigid would be Byleth, who would far sooner join in than rat anyone out.

Hubert supposes his position means he’s officially been relegated to everyone else’s pillow. With a disgruntled sigh, he accepts his fate and closes his eyes.

(He can’t say that he truly minds.)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!! if you enjoyed and have time to spare, comments and kudos are always appreciated <3
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


End file.
